


Love in The Air

by photonromance



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Baking, M/M, Romance, Secrets, Valentine's Day Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 10:13:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3377681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/photonromance/pseuds/photonromance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John makes plans. Great plans. There's romance and candlelight and everything John never thought he'd have again. But life interferes, well, Numbers do. Plans go awry and they're left exausted but alone together and John's last ditch effort proves more than enough for Harold</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love in The Air

**Author's Note:**

> My late Valentine's contribution dedicated to my lovely Irrelevants.

So John has a plan, an excellent plan. There are reservations made and bouquets ordered and paid in cash so Harold can't notice and this wonderful evening is laid out. It's going to be perfect.

So of course, it's not.

A number comes up last minute and there's running and shooting and the number has the gall to point a gun at Harold. Six pairs of kneecaps and a few pistol whippings later, they're back in Harold's car, both disheveled and breathless.

It's late by then, well into eleven dark and Harold puts his head back on the seat and sighs. The day was more running than he's accustomed to. No doubt his hip is aching. John couldn't ask him to dinner now, couldn't ask him to sit through a full set of courses so late and so tired.

No, going home, well, a safe house, is the wisest course. Harold needs a warm mug of tea and a cold pack on his hip.

Safe house chosen, they trudge inside, careful of all the usual villains. The house smells vaguely stale under the sharper scent of the chemicals the cleaning service uses. Somewhere across the city, the dozen roses John couldn't pick up are perfuming a flower shop fridge.

Harold limps to the kitchen and begins to fill the electric kettle. Sweet Harold. John goes to the freezer and takes out one of the gel packs chilling inside. When he presses it to curve between lower back and upper buttock, Harold hisses a breath.

"John-" It starts out an admonishment that melts into relief, "Oh, thank you."

John leans down and kisses his cheek, nuzzling in just to feel him. "Go rest your leg." He says softly, reaching over Harold to take down a decent sized cup, "I'll make you tea and meet you in the living room."

"You are too good to me." Harold murmurs, taking a proper kiss, if a gentle one, "Shall I pick out a book for us?" He knows John likes to hear his voice after a close call. Likes to cuddle up close to him or rest his head on Harold's good leg and listen to him read.

"Something Greek?" John knows he's blushing, but Harold reading in any language that isn't English always does something to his insides. Harold only smiles and ducks his head, limping to the sitting room.

John takes down the box of tea that Harold keeps in the little cabinet over the kettle. Behind the box is a bright yellow container. Curious, John turns it. Cocoa powder.  
Hm.

The cabinet next to it has glass containers of flour and sugar. Interesting. In the fridge, there are six eggs. For a moment, John finds his budding plan crushed until he finds a bag of brown sugar and four sticks of butter in the freezer.

It's basic, juvenile, almost. But it’s something.

The cake pans are under the cabinet and he gets everything mixed together by the time the oven reaches temperature. Dropping everything, rinsed over, in the dishwasher, John sets a timer and picks up Harold’s tea.

He’s sitting on the far side of the couch in the lamplight, thumbing through a heavy tome when John joins him. “How about a history?” He says, setting the book aside to take the cup John offers. He takes a long drink and John sits beside him, toeing off his shoes and drawing his legs up to lean agianst Harold.

“What ever you wouldn’t mind reading.” he murmurs, resting his temple on top of Harold’s head.

“This one then.”

John closes his eyes and Harold begins to talk. The lamplight is very nice and John lets himself fall into a light doze, awake enough to follow Harold but only just.

The smell of baking chocolate begins to fill the room, the taint of chemicals and stale house crushed under something much lovlier. Harold pauses, but he doesn’t comment, going back to the book.

Harold’s hair is nice and the smell of his cologne with the softer musk of his skin make John melt into him. The brownies are beginning to make the whole aparment homey and having Harold tucked nice and safe against him… John hasn’t felt like this in a very long time.

The timer goes off and John kisses Harold’s hair, getting up. Harold stops reading and looks after him, confused.

He should wait until they’ve cooled to cut them, that what bakers always say, but Harold probably won’t mind brownie mash if it tastes as good as it smells. The slice does fall apart a little, but a fork will pick it up just fine. Turning with his plate in hand, John stops short when he finds Harold in the door way.

He looks down at the plate in John’s hands and his ears turn pink. “You made that for us?” He asks softly.

“Well, for you.” John looks down at it, “If you don’t like it that’s okay, I haven’t made them in a long time and there’s always the chance I missed something-“

“It’s your recipe?” Harold’s voice has gone very small.

“Oh, um.” John finds himself at a loss, unable to look Harold in the eye, “Not mine, exactly, my mom… I mean, it’s a really easy thing, just- I had much better plans, but the Number came up and-“ He’s cut off by Harold going up on his toes and drawing him down with a hand on his shoulder.

“You’re perfect.” Harold says aginst his mouth, his own eyes closed tight, “I don’t- Oh John, you’re magnificent.” When he manages to look up at John, tears are beading his lashes and the plate clatters agianst the counter top as John wraps his arms around his little lover and they linger over a dozen more kisses.

Harold composes himself with his face pressed into John’s shirt and they settle back on the couch to have their dessert. They both have quite a sweet tooth and Harold murmurs that they’re the best brownies he’s ever had into John’s neck.

Between them, they finish off the slice and John sugguests they go to bed. “To sleep.” He assures Harold when his hand falls to the cold pack still resting on his back, “I think we’re both too tired for anything more.”

They curl together under the blankets and Harold snuggles under John’s arm. The cold packs help the pain immensely but always leave him shivering when they thaw. John bundles him up and keeps him close.

It’s sort of perfect, in it’s own way. In their way. No fancy gifts or plans that go off with out a hitch. Just closeness and comfort and secrets revealed in increments. John nuzzles into Harold’s hair again, breathing in his scent and the traces of baking left on his skin. Faintly, a ghost of his own soap, the bottle Harold bought him not so long ago, has mixed in somewhere and it makes John unbearably happy.


End file.
